The sharp squeak of your boots echoed across the marble floors of the busy Daily Planet lobby. You moved toward the elevators, thumbing through the paper’s latest crossword book. You were halfway through 21-Across (Clue: “Winged Gothamite”) when a chime dinged above the elevator bank.

You stepped inside once the doors slid open and pressed the button for the newsroom, your eyes skimming over the puzzle. The doors began to close until a large hand caught the edge, holding them open. That almost made you jump.

Your heart dropped. So did your pencil. Without thinking, your hand shot toward your bag for your pepper spray, instincts kicking in before logic could catch up.

Time slowed as you watched the doors start to slide open again.

First, you saw disheveled black curls, then blue eyes behind thick glasses, and finally that familiar, awkward half-smile.

Oh, great. It was Clark Kent.

He hated your opinion pieces.

Well, he didn't outright tell you that, but he didn't have to. You knew he did. Why else would he, almost every morning for the last three months, drop the latest issue of the Daily Planet on your desk, complete with little annotations in the margins of your column?

You weren’t surprised, though. After all, you never missed a chance to criticize the one man he always seemed to have exclusive interviews with: Superman.

Listen. You didn't hate the man with the red cape and underwear.

Sure, your articles read like you had a personal vendetta—judging by the never-ending flood of emails defending Superman—but hate wasn't the right word. You were just skeptical of him. He seemed too perfect. Too polished. Too kind. There had to be a catch, something that the Metropolitans were overlooking.

Did you have major trust issues? Yes, but anyone from Gotham did.

You had been mugged, held at gunpoint, and stabbed. The streets of Gotham were grimy and infested with crime, and the city’s superhero was more myth than man.

So, yeah, Superman was too good to be true. (And you were overdue for some therapy.) You exhaled and zipped up your bag.

Clark looked down, noticed the pencil on the floor between you, and then glanced up at your still-tense posture. “Oh, sorry,” he said gently. “Did I scare you?”

“No.”

You didn’t elaborate. He didn’t press.

There was a brief silence as the elevator started moving, humming softly around you. You bent to retrieve your pencil, brushing it off against your coat. Clark stayed quiet, hands clasped in front of him like he was holding back a dozen things he could say.

It wasn’t until the elevator dinged for the newsroom floor that he finally spoke again: “I read your latest column.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t,” you deadpanned.

As you stepped out into the buzz of ringing phones and clacking keys, you extended your hand without looking.

Like clockwork, Clark pulled the folded Daily Planet from his worn leather satchel and placed it in your palm.

You tucked your crossword book under your arm and flipped straight to your piece. There, you saw his signature red markings. Circles. Question marks. Underlines. A scribbled “hmm” in the margin next to a line you were particularly proud of. A familiar irritation prickled in your chest. “You think he’s performative?”

“That’s what I wrote.”

He hummed. “Interesting.”

“Has anyone ever told you your handwriting sucks?”

“Uh, no? Not that I recall.”

You glanced at him. “It sucks.”

He faltered in his steps as your words landed like a punch. “Jeez.”